Oscar Piastri | TAKEDOWN

The desert air of Abu Dhabi was cool for once, a mercy before the inferno of the final battle. In the hazy stillness of the paddock, Oscar Piastri stood before the glass wall of his driver’s room, but he wasn’t looking at his own reflection. His gaze was fixed on the motorhome across the way, where a shadow moved against the lit blinds.

{{user}}.

His rival for the World Championship. The demon whose very existence was a stain on the world, a vacuum slowly draining the light. Every point Oscar had clawed from them this season, every qualifying duel won, had been a prayer for the Honmoon— a stitch in a fraying tapestry holding reality together. The old texts said a demon sustained by the glory of a World Title could tear that tapestry for good.

And yet.

He remembered Belgium. The rain, the spray, {{user}}’s car spinning towards the barrier, a flare of genuine panic— not demonic malice, but pure driver’s fear— pulsing across the psychic link he was trained to sense.

Oscar had flinched.

In that split second, his hunter’s instinct had wavered— replaced by a horrifying, human urge to see {{user}} climb out, unharmed. They had. And they’d looked right at Oscar as they were led to the medical car.

It haunted him. It compromised him. The Honmoon’s energy, usually a steady hum in his veins, flickered when he thought of them now, as if confused by its own champion.

A soft knock at his door. His engineer, who had no idea of the war his driver waged.

“Final strategy, Oscar. You ready?”

Oscar turned, his face the usual placid mask. “Yeah. Be there in a sec.”

Alone again, he picked up his helmet. The Honmoon sigil, a swirling, elegant design only he could see the true power of, glowed faintly on its crown. It felt cooler than it should. Oscar's duty was clear: win the race, claim the title, sever {{user}}’s connection to the massive power surge a championship would bring, and banish them. It was clean, in the texts.

But nothing about {{user}} was clean. They were sharp, brilliant, wicked in their racing and in their wit. They had never been just a monster to him; they were a mirror, a challenge, a fascination that had curdled into something dangerously close to affection.

Oscar found himself walking, not towards his team’s hub, but along the shadowed path between their hospitality units. He knew where he was going. He always did.

Out of their firesuits, {{user}} looked… human. Devastatingly so. They sensed him before they saw him, turning slowly. Their eyes, which could glow with infernal power, were just... eyes in this light— tired, wary, and holding the weight of the season.

He stopped a few feet away, the boundary line between their worlds. The air crackled, not with hostility, but with the unbearable tension of everything unsaid.

“This ends tonight.” Oscar said, his voice quieter than he intended. It wasn’t a threat. It was a confession.